Tuesday
31 May 2022

Something told him not to delay. A premonition, maybe, whispering to him in his ear from the moment he woke up.

Come on, Erik, it taunted. Keep walking this way. Don't stop now.

The words were hauntingly familiar.

You know the drill, don't you? You're the expert after all.

He knew that voice. He'd heard it many times before. And he knew exactly what it meant.

Have you missed me, Erik? Have you missed the Angel of Death?

"Christine!"

She was gasping for air in her bed, head thrown back to straighten her windpipe. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, a gurgling melody rinsing from her lungs as they expanded and collapsed in quick succession. A fine layer of sweat coated her forehead, matted with damp clumps of her fine golden hair.

"Erik…" she choked out. A smile swept across her face despite the pain. "I missed you…"

"Christine, how long have you been like this?"

"Since I woke… up, several hours… ago."

His mind raced. "Where's the nurse? The doctor? I need to get someone -"

"No…" She placed her hand on his, stopping him from leaving… why was she always stopping him from leaving?! "Erik, don't…"

"You need help, Christine!" Erik pleaded. "Don't you?"

"I think… I'll be okay…" she said, and then coughed coarsely until a thick wad of mucus flew into her hands. "It's been like this for hours, Erik. It comes and goes."

With the mucus gone, she sounded a little better. Her breathing calmed a bit, too. Erik's reservations faded slightly, but not totally.

Uneasily he took the seat beside her and gripped her hand. "I thought you were getting better."

"I am," she insisted. "It's just a minor setback."

He nervously studied her. He wanted to believe her. Forever and a day, right?

"But maybe, just in case…" she twisted her sheets in her fists nervously. What did she have to be nervous about? "Can I make a request, Erik?"

He could have laughed. Didn't she know by now that he'd steal the stars for her? "Of course."

A small tear welled up in her eye. "Would you sing for me?"

Oh.

He suddenly recalled their first meeting. She'd said, Pappa said angels have voices like the clouds, and asked him to sing.

But she'd been delusional back then, hadn't she? Why was she asking this now?

"I would love to," Erik said desperately.

But even that simple sentence sounded so raspy and raw.

He couldn't sing for her. Not like this. His voice was far worse than ever before in his life – no doubt from this illness born from many decades of abusing his body. His voice had always been the most palatable thing about him, in stark contrast to his demented face and mind. But in the past week – with the two overdoses and resulting overexertion – he was burning out his constitution and sabotaging his only remaining bit of beauty.

"My voice, Christine, though, you must understand…" he explained, letting the gritty tones of his voice speak for themselves.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I do understand. I do. I shouldn't have asked. I'm a professional singer, I really should have known better. I'm sorry."

They lapsed into a brief silence.

"Have we met before?" Christine suddenly asked.

"Excuse me?" Erik blinked at her. "Of course not, Christine. You know that."

"I just feel like we have. I can't believe we only met last week." She thought for a moment. "How old are you?"

Erik thought. "Something like fifty, I'd imagine."

"Have you lived in this city long?"

"No. I only moved to Paris in the last five years."

She counted on her fingers. "Hmm… me too."

"Indeed…?"

"Yeah. I used to live in a town in Sweden, actually, right by what's now Kvarnborg Sjö. It was a very small town, with a handful of families living in a lot of trailer homes set up by the lake." Her eyes turned dreamy. "There was a railroad that ran behind the town – they stopped running it in the fifties. You could get to it by walking down the main road. It was always very muddy because of the rain. I used to play in the old abandoned boxcars down by the lake… they were so very rusty. I cut my knee on one once…"

"That sounds rather unpleasant."

"But it wasn't, really. The boxcars were dirty, but the other kids and I would wash up in the lake. The lake was very clean, you see – I could walk in up to my chin and still count all my toes." She was grinning full-out now, lost in the memory. "I learned to sing on that lake. Pappa would row us out to the middle of the lake on early summer mornings, set out his fishing rod, and then take his fiddle out and start to play. I'm trying to enchant the fish, he told me. Sing for them, my little Christine. Tell them to bite."

Erik looked dubious. "Did it work?"

"No," Christine laughed. "We never caught any fish. The music, you know, it shoos them away."

"So then why…?"

She ignored his question. It wasn't important anyway, he would later reflect. How could he even try to understand the relationship between a father and his daughter?

She continued on: "I fell in love with singing on that lake. I sang for the fish at first, and then for my father, and then for my father's friends, and then for their sons, and then for a boy…" She blushed but cut herself off. "When I moved to Paris I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do, but I knew I wanted to sing. The opera just kind of… happened. I never had any formal training, but they took me anyway. I'm thankful every day for that, but really – this might be bad to say, but I really don't care much for opera!" She laughed until she coughed, then recovered. "What about you?"

"It's music," Erik shrugged. "It has its enjoyable moments."

"It does," she agreed. "But I'd much rather be back in Sweden, singing folksongs on Pappa's rowboat out on the lake. I'd give anything for that."

"Why haven't you moved back there yet, then?"

"It's all gone," she sighed. "The trailers, the road, the boxcars. Everything. Even Pappa."

"I don't understand, Christine. Towns don't just disappear?" People did, Erik knew that from personal experience – but towns? That was a much harder magic trick.

"They built a dam on a nearby river and flooded the town; everything's underwater now." Christine closed her eyes. "The city solved its annual flood problem, the lake got a little bigger – and we lost our homes."

"And what of your father?"

"He came with me to Paris."

"And?"

"He is dead now, Erik," Christine's face crumpled in frustration. "Don't make me relive it."

The sudden wall that she erected was palpable. "Forgive me…"

But then – as always – she relented.

"I'm sorry, Erik. It's just that the memories are still so fresh. He died only three months ago." She paused as she worked out what to say. "It was a tumor. The doctors called it a glioblastoma. They said the diagnosis was basically a death sentence. They told us he had six months to live. He barely made it a month."

She looked at Erik, the blue lakes of her eyes welling up. "Why, Erik? Why do the people we love get taken from us before we're ready to let them go? I was finally old enough to talk to him like a person. I was just getting to know him. So – why?"

Erik searched futilily for the words and came back with nothing.

"You're a smart man, Erik," Christine begged. A sharp series of coughs punctuated her words. "You – must – know!"

"I do not," Erik said, clutching her hand tighter. "Christine, please…"

"How do you – not know?" The coughs were getting stronger, her breaths coming deeper and more strangled. "You – who killed so many? Aren't you – the one who is – supposed to know about – this sort of thing?!"

You're the expert after all…

"Where is the – reason in all of - this?" Christine cried. "What are – you - supposed to do -"

She didn't finish her sentence. A harsh round of hacking cut her off completely, and then her breath left her gasping for air to the point that she abandoned the thought completely.

"Christine?" Erik said with alarm.

A wheezing, choking sound came from her throat.

"Christine!" Erik begged. "Christine, please – you said this comes and goes -"

Her eyes flooded with tears, and her lips moved soundlessly.

"Help!" Erik bellowed over his shoulder, willing someone to hear him, "God, someone help her!"

The nurses arrived first. One with a vitals cart, another with a glucometer, a third with a clipboard.

"O2 sat is 60%!" they cried as one. "Turn up the oxygen to 15 liters! Grab a nonrebreather!"

The doctors arrived next as a flurry of white, followed shortly by others from various departments.

"Anyone do suction yet?" cried the respiratory therapist. "For the love of God, people, don't just stand around!"

A long yankeur tube was thrust into Christine's mouth unforgivingly, wrenching around her throat searching fruitlessly for globs of mucus.

"It's down too deep!" the nurse holding the yankeur shouted amidst the confusion. "I can't suction anything!"

"We'll have to intubate," Doctor Divoc announced. "Someone call the bed supervisor and tell them we need to prepare a transfer to ICU."

Erik stood, pressed against the far wall, watching the scene play out before him. The code team brushed past him like he was just another part of the wall. He felt a fresh wave of nausea wage war on his stomach, as overwhelming fear crept over him.

"Christine!" Doctor Divoc said. "Can you hear me?"

Erik watched her nod.

"We're going to intubate you now. Do you understand?"

Her lips were turning blue. She nodded again.

"Alright, where's RT with the glidescope?" Doctor Divoc searched around for the respiratory therapist. The man approached with a white sterile box in hand. Doctor Divoc stepped aside, gesturing, "All yours."

Two nurses unlocked the wheels of the bed and yanked the entire thing forward, and then the respiratory therapist moved to stand behind the head of the bed. Looming over Christine, with the sharp-looking metal scope in hand, he was reaching his hand down to steady her jaw when –

"…stop…"

It was like a miracle.

The entire room stopped and stared at Christine, still croaking for breath.

But there was no mistake, as every single person watched her lips move as she whispered, once again, "Please stop…"

Erik couldn't believe his ears. She wasn't saying what he thought she was? "Christine…?"

And it seemed the doctor was similarly shocked. "Christine, are you – are you asking us to stop?"

"Yes…" she said, breathlessly but firmly.

The doctor glanced at the rest of the team.

"You wish to refuse further treatment?"

Another weak yes.

"Including intubation?"

And another.

"Do you wish us to stop all… life-saving interventions?"

The yes didn't come as quickly as the others, but it came regardless.

Erik couldn't help himself. "Christine! What are you saying?" And then he rounded on the doctors. "Don't listen to her! She's not in her right mind! She's delusional! You have to save her life!"

"This is not your place, nurse," Doctor Divoc warned. "The patient has full capacity and we have to respect her wishes."

"I swear, if you don't save her, you'll be respecting my hands around your scrawny little neck - !"

"Erik…" Christine soft voice cut through his outburst. "Please… don't be like this… I'm so tired."

He stared at her helplessly, shoulders sagging.

"Christine!" he pleaded.

"We'll initiate comfort measures, then," Doctor Divoc announced to the team, before pointing at a timid-looking resident. "You: call palliative care right now. Everyone else: you're good to go. This code is over."

Christine on hospice was exactly like Christine not on hospice, with the small added detail being that every time Christine stopped talking, Erik assumed she died.

He'd seen death so many times, too many times to count. But never like this. This dirge of death wasn't the quick thrust of a knife he'd become accustomed to, nor was it the bone-cracking yank of a Punjab lasso. This form of death was some other sort of torture that he'd never experienced before.

A younger Erik would have relished in his pain.

"What are you thinking about right now?"

Christine's gentle voice broke through his thoughts.

Her breathing had levelled out again, but the wheezing still remained. The work of breathing was becoming too great – at some point she'd simply grow too tired to keep going.

But for now she was – okay, in a way. Her chest was rising and falling like normal. Her voice was rough and abrasive, but it'd been like that for a week. And Erik could hear the fluid crackling in her lungs with every cough, but that wasn't exactly new either.

"Honestly?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I'm thinking about you," he replied. "And I'm worried about you. Are you in any pain? I don't want you to be. The nurse said they can give you more morphine if you need – ten milligrams every hour, I think she said."

"I'm okay right now," she said.

Erik knew she was lying.

"Good," he said quickly. "Ten milligrams is too much." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Do you want another pillow? I can find one for you."

"Where? In another room?" She chuckled softly. "Then you might find another patient you like more than me, and you'll leave me all alone."

Erik gaped at her. "You know I would never…!"

"I'm teasing you, Erik," she laughed again. "You truly are a dark and twisty curmudgeon, aren't you?"

He only frowned at her, a serious look in his eye. "I think I'll die without you."

"Oh, Erik… please don't say that. I'm not worth dying over."

"It's the truth, Christine," he said. "This past week has been the happiest one in my life. I fear knowing the taste of happiness has spoilt me for good, however. I have loved you as I have never loved anyone or anything else ever before. I have nothing left to return to but my miserable existence as the bottomfeeder of society. It's not terribly appealing."

The smile left her face. "Have you never loved before?"

"No, never," he said, the answer like a reflex. Again he shifted in the chair, fidgeting with his pantlegs, as he reconsidered his answer. "Maybe once before. I think I loved my mother, despite the way she loathed me. And – there was a girl, when I was a boy. I think I loved her too, even if not in the way I love you."

"So you see?" Christine said. "You aren't loveless. You have loved before – probably more than even those two times. You just didn't recognize it."

"But you are the only person in this world worth loving. What am I supposed to do without you?"

"Go," Christine said, "and love some more. Look for love in the places where you never looked before. Try to fall in love with life. And learn to love yourself as I…"

She folded in on herself as a fresh series of coughs assailed her. Bright red blood spattered out, intermixed with the expelled mucus, and her face contorted into one of great agony. He turned his face down, unable to watch her suffer so senselessly.

When the fit was over, he saw out of the corner of his eyes the way she clenched onto the blankets with a white-knuckled grip, and he could tell just from that the pain had not yet ceased – and never would.

"Erik?" Christine's voice was quiet and solemn now. He looked up at her. Her cheeks were blushed with a small tinge of pink, like a porcelain doll whose painted features had rubbed off over the years. "You mentioned before that you killed people."

"I did…"

"Would you kill me if I asked?" She wasn't looking at him. "I am in so much pain, Erik. The morphine does nothing. I feel like I'm drowning. So – would you? Would you do that for me?"

I would…

"Erik?"

…for you…

"Please, Erik? Would you?"

…anything…

He was saved from answering by the door to the room creaking open. Over his shoulder, he watched a young man approach the bed, and kneel on one knee at Christine's side, opposite of Erik.

It was the same young man who'd brought the bouquet of peonies and daisies on Saturday.

"I'm finally here, Christine," the young man said, clasping her hand to his heart. "They finally let me in to see you… oh, God, Christine, I wish I could have been here sooner…"

Erik watched them as his heart began to slowly shatter. No, no, this wasn't how this was supposed to be! He was the one who'd been there for Christine – he thought there was nobody else – he'd been wrong the entire time…

"Thank you for taking such good care of her," the man said. Erik looked around until he realized the man was talking to him! Him! Of all people, he was thanking him? The man held out his hand to Erik, over Christine's form. "I'm Christine's fiance, Raoul."

Erik hardly noticed as he took the man's hand and shook it. He didn't bother giving a name. What good would it do at this point?

"Would you mind, though, nurse?" Raoul said as politely as possible. "I'd like some time alone with her, if that's alright."

Of course it wasn't alright. Erik wanted to strangle the boy for even making such an insulting request! And yet – and yet –

And yet he had no hold of her. He was, as Raoul called him, just the nurse. That was the role he had presented himself as to Christine on their very first day together. What claim did he have to her?

He gazed at her face – and for a brief moment, through her struggled gasps for breath, her eyes locked on his too.

I love you, Christine… I love you! Doesn't that mean anything?

Her eyes broke away, trailing to the other side of the bed to meet Raoul's, and Erik's heart finally shattered.

Nothing…?

Reluctantly he removed himself from the room. He didn't dare look back. Silently he trudged down the hall, feeling entirely separate from the rest of the world, and then at last Erik left the hospital entirely.